


Aide Memoire

by Huggle



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggle/pseuds/Huggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A plot against the Queen.  A stranger he must follow into the night.</p>
<p>Athos has no reason to suspect the involvement of someone who would dearly love to see him suffer, especially by her own hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aide Memoire

Athos slid back into the shadows, and watched as Jeanne received the bag of coins from the man outside the inn. Once it was done, she looked around her with concern.

Well she might – Treville had suspected for some time that one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting was betraying the trust placed in her by selling the confidences Anne shared. Whether the information was trivial or not; Athos presumed that was not something Jeanne decided. She was no doubt repeating everything she heard, and letting others rate its worth.

It was the identity of the others that troubled them so much. Paris was a pit of vipers, with many simply waiting an opportunity to coil and strike. The Captain’s plan had been for them to find out who Jeanne was selling her information to, and if that person was acting alone or in league with others.

It would do no good to catch one when others involved might escape. All or none, Treville had said. We must wait to be certain.

Athos had challenged that as a very risky game. If Anne had said something worth repeating, waiting might be costly. But Treville would have his way; much as Athos valued the older man’s judgement, he could not help but feel he was wrong this time.

Once Jeanne had departed, her contact stepped out into the street. He was a thin man of average height, of generally bland appearance. There was nothing in particular to mark him; he seemed no different from most men Athos might have passed in the street. But Athos committed him to memory; he was a traitor, and with luck he would lead Athos to the rest of his ilk if he was not acting alone. 

If not tonight, then tomorrow, or the day after that. From now until they were sure, the man would be watched by Athos and his friends. 

Keeping back, Athos followed the man as he meandered away from the inn. He seemed in no hurry, pace easy and unworried. So far, they had done nothing to let him believe he was in any danger. But Athos knew at any minute the situation could change. Perhaps Jeanne would have something to say that could put the King and Queen at risk. Or they could be adding what the girl told them to knowledge gained from another source.

It should not have been an easy task to turn one of the Queen’s ladies against her mistress. They were closely watched, but by the Cardinal’s guards. No doubt Jeanne or her fellow conspirator had simply paid one of them to turn his back while she slipped out. Athos despised treachery. He had no sympathy for Jeanne based on her gender.

She was a traitor, like the others she had been selling information to. Athos knew how the Crown would deal with traitors but he could find no regret for her. Or for the man she was dealing with – both would likely hang with any that were proven to be involved in this scheme.

But not until Athos had found out who was behind it all.

He followed the thin man past a butcher’s shop, and noticed the streets were growing darker, and narrower. It felt as if the buildings on either side were leaning over to block the starlight out and him in. 

It was becoming the perfect spot for an ambush.

No sooner had the possibility occurred to him than he heard a step behind him – oh, meant to be quiet, but when all else was too at this hour it was loud as a warning bell. Athos kept to his pace. His shadow was not near enough yet to turn and engage, and with luck the musketeer might be able to catch both him and the thin man.

He watched the spy enter the recessed doorway of an old building up ahead and then he was out of sight. Athos quickened his pace, as he would have been expected to do anyway but also because he knew of the buildings in this quarter. Many were used for smuggling and so had secret exits and tunnels that ran beneath them. It was why so many looked ready to collapse – the tunnelling was often haphazardly done, undermining the structures of the buildings above them.

He was not, however, about to rush into a shadowed doorway where it would be easier for his mystery pursuer to step up close and slide a dagger between his ribs. Not that he expected to be allowed to proceed that far without hindrance; his sudden urgency would mirror itself in the man following him, and that would be the perfect opportunity to –

Athos turned sharply, dropping to one knee and drawing his short blade as the cudgel aimed for his skull swung overhead.

“A brigand’s choice,” he chastised, and answered with the bite of his dagger. The knife skittered across the man’s ribs – Athos meant to wound not kill – until it found its spot, where it would do damage but not take a life. Not immediately, anyway.

The man dropped his weapon, and staggered back as he clutched at his side. Blood wept between his fingers.

Rising, switching dagger for sword, Athos was better able to judge the man. Slightly taller than himself, but with the bulk that showed why he chose brute force and blunt instrument over blade.

“Bastard,” he cursed at Athos.

There was still fight in him. Athos considered drawing his musket, but he had been led into one of the darker areas of Paris. If he had to shoot this man to stop him, he would have to kill him. Alive and able to answer questions was better than dead in the street, but Athos knew the sound of the shot would draw unwanted attention. 

He would find no friends here.

The man lunged at him.

It was easy enough to step out of his way; he was not fast, and the wound slowed him further. But he was piggish and turned to charge Athos again.

“Don’t be a fool,” Athos cautioned. The man snarled at him. “On the other hand, be as foolish as you wish. But there might be some leniency shown you for your co-operation.”

The man ducked his head and charged forward like a human battering ram. Athos backed up as quickly as he could: let the man lose some of his momentum, and took the rest. The man’s head almost winded him as it hit his midsection, but Athos brought the hilt of his sword down on his assailant’s skull. Once, twice.

How much would it take to stop him? Perhaps shooting him would have been the best plan. As he was carried back, Athos struck a third time and earned reward for his effort. The man grunted and went to his knees. He looked dazedly up at the musketeer and Athos finished him with a punch to the face that was enough, now, to send him unconscious to the ground.

Breathing hard, Athos was aware of the sharp grind of pain. A rib – not broken, he believed, but perhaps bruised or cracked. It wasn’t the first time and he recognised the sensation. Looking down at the hound sent to kill him, Athos wondered if it was worth it – this was not the man he’d most wanted, but by now probably the one he did would be gone.

Athos advanced on the door, pistol in hand, drove his foot against the side and stepped back as it slammed open.

No one rushed at him out of the dark. He stepped inside cautiously, glancing to left and right. 

The room was empty, bare of furniture. Nothing to hide and nowhere for a man to be hidden.

He advanced carefully, spotting another door that stood ajar. Though he doubted he would catch up to Jeanne’s partner in this sordid business, he was not ready to give up yet.

But before he could even reach the door, he felt a chill run through him. There was a scent, light and barely present, but one he knew well.

Behind him.

“Oh, my love,” Milady said. “And you once said you would always expect me to be behind you.”

A hand – hers, he was sure, he remembered her touch – held a cloth over his mouth and nose, and a different smell overtook him. He fought against it, but a second person wrapped their arms around him, pinning him, and despite his struggles they brought him down while the drug did its work.

::::

Athos awoke unsure they had not caved his skull in. His head throbbed mercilessly. He was lying on his side anyway, which made it easier to vomit, and this he did until his stomach hurt almost as much as his head.

His hands were bound behind him.

Milady crouched beside him and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “All that caution,” she murmured. “And yet still you are here and helpless. What am I to do with you, Athos?”

He did not meet her eyes, refused to give her the satisfaction. That had always angered her, when she thought she did not have his attention. When he had spent almost every moment with her, it was a way to tease her, to eventually provoke her passion.

Now he did it from hate and a refusal to let her have any more control over him that she already did.

He expected her to strike him, but instead she lowered herself to the ground and tucked her legs beneath her. He was too weak still to resist when she drew him onto her lap.

Her fingers stroked his cheek, ran along his jaw. They traced the line of his throat, slipping inside his shirt, and finding there the chain of the locket he still wore.

She smiled as she took the gold links between her fingers. “You still have it.”

Athos refused to answer.

“I am glad,” she said, and twisted the chain until it bit into his neck.

He tried to pull away from her, but her grip was hard and unyielding. She had always been strong, and he had never been weaker, so it was easy for her to hold him. 

“Which is worse, I wonder,” she mused. “The pain as it cuts into your neck; the burn in your throat as you try to breathe and can’t. Or is it because someone who should be protecting you is allowing this to happen?”

She bent down, pressed her lips to his. He felt her smile against his mouth.

“But I won’t leave you,” she said. “I’ll wait it out with you, Athos. The last thing that will ever come between us.”

The strength was bleeding out of him; Athos could do nothing as she twisted the chain further, unnecessary as it was, and pulled him against her. She ran her hand through his hair, an obscene parody of the gentleness with which she had once touched him.

He could feel himself slipping away, and perhaps it was the lack of air but as the room grew darker still a shadow flitted out of the darkness and came rushing towards him.

::::

Someone struck him in the face.

Athos drew in a breath, began to cough, felt his throat seize and ache as the air flowed back into him.

“Good lad,” Treville said. He snapped the chain and tossed it and the locket aside, and despite himself Athos tried to see where they had gone. “Now, keep breathing.”

The captain was kneeling beside him. Treville reached down and pulled Athos up against him, and slid the blade of his dagger through the rope binding his wrists.

“Captain,” Athos began, but his voice was ragged and trying to speak brought on another coughing fit.

“Damned woman,” Treville said. “Aramis!”

Aramis came into the room, his face dark. “She’s gone, but the other one is dead.”

Treville’s anger was apparent. “So much for someone to question over this plot.”

“Tell me you would rather they live after this?” Aramis said.

Treville seemed willing to ignore the insubordination, for which Athos was grateful. The captain beckoned Aramis over, and he crouched behind Athos to support him as he handed over a cup of water.

“Small sips,” he advised, “else you will decorate the captain with the results.”

Athos did as instructed. It hurt to breathe, still – his throat aching and raw. He could feel blood on his skin, and reached up with his hand to touch his neck.

Treville caught his hand, guided it back to the cup. “Nothing that can’t be mended,” he said, but his voice was tight.

Athos set the cup down. All wasn’t lost – there was still Jeanne. They had to find her. But when he went to speak, Aramis pressed a finger to his lips. 

“Much as I hate to deprive us of your voice, Athos, the best thing for you to do for now would be to say nothing.”

Athos shook his head, and despite the pain told them of his fears.

::::

The Queen had been distraught, by all accounts.

Treville had not told her of Jeanne’s fate; Richelieu had done that, and Athos could only imagine the feigned dismay, the reassurances that something would be done – if only, if only the girl had not somehow snuck out of the palace. Yes, attention would be paid to the how, the why, the lack of law and order on the streets of the Capital when a young innocent lady could become the victim of a brutal footpad.

Athos had not seen Jeanne’s body. A member of the city guard had found her, not far from where he had witnessed her betraying her mistress, taking her price and fleeing into the darkness.

He wondered if _she_ had done the deed herself. Followed the girl, called to her, drew her blade across her throat and left her to bleed to death in the doorway of some house of ill repute.

Athos reached up, without thinking, and ran his fingers along the inflamed band around his neck. Two days without speaking, the surgeon had said. The wound to be bathed in salt water and he himself to take rest. 

Treville had told him of all that had occurred after Athos had left to follow Jeanne. How he had felt the Cardinal’s hand in all of this, somehow, and cared not to leave those in his charge exposed to Richelieu’s icy touch. 

How he and the others had followed and a good thing that they had. Interrupting the Cardinal’s agent of death before she could claim another life.

His life.

Again his fingertips touched the swollen tender stripe where the chain had bit in. It was cut in places and he knew it would scar. Had that been her intent, he wondered. A permanent reminder of what had occurred between them, as if he needed one.

Athos took up the cup of brandy, sipped it, and said nothing as Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan came to sit by him. 

“Hardly what the surgeon meant by rest,” Aramis chided, but he caught the eye of the buxom mistress of the house, and soon a bottle of brandy and three more cups were laid before them.

Athos was no longer annoyed at the enforced silence; he did not wish to speak, to discuss what had happened, at least not what had happened to him. She was still out there, free and no doubt plotting, with any number of unknown conspirators. And behind the curtain, Richelieu – pulling strings and whispering prompts, guiding all the players to where he wished them to be.

Those strings would be cut, Athos vowed to himself. And the Cardinal dragged from the shadows, he and his scheming exposed to all. 

He raised his cup, and stared at his comrades, his brothers. They raised their own cups, and Porthos reached across the table to clap his shoulder. 

It might take time, blood and tremendous effort to best Richelieu, but they would do it together.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the BBC Musketeers Kink page; I haven't seen all the episodes so apologies if there is divergence from canon.


End file.
